martes, 1 de mayo de 2012

History is not fascinating, and indeed has no reason for being, until some supremely great poetic liar—a Shakespeare, a Hugo, or a Dumas—recreates it for us; or until some seer blows into its body a fictitious soul which he calls a philosophic theory. The historian must have a migratory imagination. He puts clothes on ghosts. He is the tailor of dead men. The past is his clinic and he demonstrates over his own Frankensteins.